Flightsend

by Linda Newbery

  ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,’ Charlie said. ‘Especially if the whole airfield gets ripped up to make room for a new housing estate.’

  Her mother looked amused. ‘It’s not a question of the whole airfield, yet! Aren’t you being a bit NIMBY about this – you know, not in my back yard?’

  ‘No! Oh, I don’t know. Yes!’

  ‘Twelve new houses won’t ruin the village,’ Kathy said. ‘And you can’t blame farmers for selling off land. Just think of the time they’ve had, with foot-and-mouth, and drought, and floods, and cheaper food coming in from Europe. Wouldn’t you take the chance of making a few hundred thousand pounds, and retiring on the proceeds?’

  ‘But it’s just the start! Those houses will back right on to the airfield, and then what’s going to stop someone putting up another twenty, or forty, or a hundred?’

  Kathy looked at her. ‘Why are you so attached to that airfield? There are other places you can walk Caspar.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but – well, it’s history! Part of the village’s past. You’re a historian, you must feel the same.’ Charlie looked at the last piece of baguette, thought of her weight, and took it anyway.

  ‘But almost everything else in the village is older than the airfield,’ Kathy pointed out. ‘It was built to fulfil a temporary need, more than fifty years ago. If it’s no longer needed, and obviously it isn’t, then surely it makes sense to build there rather than on greenfield sites?’

  ‘What about Hog Pond? I suppose they’ll fill that in, and there’s another piece of history gone. But Honeysuckle Coppice!’ Charlie moaned. ‘Where did they get that from? Why don’t they call it Hog Pond Close?’

  Kathy giggled. ‘Oh sure. Hog Pond. A superior development of houses with unique bathing facilities.’

  After lunch, Charlie settled under the shade of the apple tree with her revision. Her mother, having run out of grit for the alpine plants she was potting up, had gone to buy some from the garden centre, so when the phone rang – jangling noisily on the yard extension – Charlie answered.

  ‘Hello, Charlie?’

  It was Sean.

  His familiar voice, with a trace of a Staffordshire accent, brought her first a rush of affection and then a sense of loss that was like a punch in the stomach.

  ‘Hi, Sean! Mum’s gone out. She’ll only be twenty minutes.’

  ‘No, wait.’ He sounded relieved that it was Charlie who’d picked up the phone. ‘I was thinking of coming over this afternoon. Just dropping in. Do you think that would be OK?’

  Charlie thought of her mother’s optimistic mood today, of the success of the Nightingales visit.

  ‘Yes, do come! She’ll like that.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Sean sounded wistful.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure!’ Charlie crossed her fingers. ‘Things are going better for her lately – she’s a bit more normal. I bet she’d like to see you.’

  There was a pause, and then Sean said, ‘All right, I’ll come. About three-thirty?’

  ‘Great! See you later, then.’

  When Kathy arrived back, and came into the garden to ask, ‘Any callers?’ Charlie said, ‘No,’ without looking up from her Geography folder.

  Sean

  Charlie intended to stay out of the way, under the apple tree with her nose firmly in her revision notes, when Sean came. But it didn’t work as she planned. Her mother didn’t go as far as refusing to speak to Sean; it was worse than that. She treated him with distant politeness, as if he were a passing caller who might buy some of her hardy perennials. She showed him the polytunnel, the array of plants for sale, the spare stock; she showed him around the downstairs rooms of Flightsend. And then she withdrew into the old stable that she called her office, to work on her accounts. She might as well have hung a ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice on the door. Sean’s time was up.

  Charlie was the one who talked to him, who showed him the back garden and the Frühlingsmorgen rose, and who demonstrated Caspar’s endearing habit of chasing after an imaginary ball and searching diligently when she pretended to throw one. It was Charlie who made Sean a cup of tea and offered to show him round the village. It was only because of Mum that he hadn’t been here before; he’d offered help with the moving in, the decorating, the setting-up of the plant nursery, but Mum had always refused.

  They took Caspar. The village front gardens were drowsing in the sunshine, and collared doves cooed in the churchyard trees. A cyclist passed through with a quick burr of wheels but there was no one else in sight. Charlie thought: it could always be like this if Mum wasn’t so obstinate. Sean would love living here. There was room for him at Flightsend. Theoretically.

  The big ginger cat from Radbourne House was sitting on the gatepost, looking at them with calm amber eyes. Charlie said, ‘I always think that cat’s going to say something. It looks so intelligent. There’s something about cats’ eyes – well, some cats’ eyes – that makes you think they’re incredibly old and wise. Like they’ve been around for hundreds and hundreds of years, and seen it all.’

  Rowan, if Charlie had said such a thing to her, would have stared and giggled and said, ‘Charlie, you’re out of your tree!’ Sean laughed too, but he said, ‘I know what you mean. Like Conker. He’d have talked if he could, daft old Conker. This cat would say something amazingly clever. He’s got that sort of inscrutable look.’

  Charlie thought of their old cat Conker, and the way he used to sleep on his side with his legs straight and all his paws together.

  ‘What are you doing in the summer holidays?’ she asked. ‘It’s only about four weeks till term ends, isn’t it?’ Since study leave began, she’d lost track of the dates.

  ‘I’m going to Snowdonia for a week’s mountain leadership course. Then I might go to Turkey.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Well, I’ve got to do something.’

  Charlie saw bleakness flicker across his face. This isn’t right, she thought. Mum’s done this to him. Sean had always seemed cheerful, rarely moody or depressed or even just dull; when he lived with Charlie and her mother he was always singing or whistling around the house. He’d made everything fun, even going to Tesco’s – queuing at the checkout, he would organize his purchases on the cashier’s belt according to some rule: by colour, or alphabetically, or in order of size. Once, recently, shopping with Mum, Charlie had found herself colour-coding the contents of their trolley as she set them out.

  Sean wasn’t smiling now. He’d changed in the last year; there was sadness underlying his natural vigour. ‘What about you, Charlie?’ he asked. ‘How do you like living here? I bet you’re feeling a bit cut off from Rowan and your other friends.’

  ‘It’s all right. More than all right. I like it here.’

  ‘You’re not going out with Stephen Gee any more? I don’t see you around school with him, these days.’

  Charlie shook her head. ‘That was ages ago.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘Haven’t got time,’ she said lightly.

  Charlie thought about asking if he’d like to go and see the airfield, and the cross and the badger sett, but Sean said, ‘I’d better go. You’ve got an exam tomorrow, haven’t you? I don’t want to stop you revising.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Charlie said, although she really did need to do more revision, and events seemed to be conspiring to stop her; but it was clear that Sean was really thinking about Kathy, and her offhand dismissal.

  They started to walk slowly back. The Post Office-cum-shop was closed, but the front door of the cottage beside it opened as they passed, and Henrietta the shopkeeper came out holding a small watering can. She was fortyish and – Charlie thought – slightly dotty, dressing like a middle-aged hippy with strings of beads, dozens of thin bracelets that tinkled as she moved her arms, and long droopy clothes with fringes and tassels. Charlie liked her.

  ‘Hello!’ She beamed at Charlie, then at Sean; then asked Charlie, ‘Is this your …’

/>   There was an awkward second while Charlie imagined the words brother? boyfriend? hovering on Henrietta’s lips. It had occurred to her before that people might think Sean was her boyfriend. She could easily pass for eighteen or nineteen if she wanted to, and Sean was still in his twenties.

  ‘This is Sean,’ Charlie said quickly. And while he smiled and said Hello back, she wondered what she could call him. Ex-colleague of my mother’s? Mum’s ex-lover? Ex-father of my mother’s ex-baby?

  She wished she could call him something that didn’t start with ex.

  ‘You won’t forget about the village fête in two weeks, will you?’ Henrietta said. ‘I’m organizing it this year, so it’s going to be fabulous.’

  ‘No, we won’t forget. Mum’s having a plant stall.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Henrietta looked Sean up and down. ‘If you’re around, perhaps you’d like to be in one of the tug-of-war teams? We’re short of strong young men.’

  ‘I don’t think so, thanks,’ Sean said.

  ‘Oh well, never mind.’ Henrietta edged past them to water the petunias in her window-boxes. Charlie knew that you shouldn’t water flowers in strong sunshine, it made them wilt, but she didn’t want to sound like a horticultural know-all, so said nothing. ‘You ought to wear green, you know,’ Henrietta told her sternly. ‘It’s your colour. That red T-shirt doesn’t suit you at all. Far too harsh. I’ve got some gorgeous batik things in the shop, just arrived. Come in on Monday and have a look. Isn’t green her colour?’ she appealed to Sean. ‘Wouldn’t it look wonderful, with her hair? A sort of deep mossy green.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Sean said.

  ‘Bye then, Henrietta,’ Charlie said firmly. When they were out of earshot – and in any case Henrietta was now singing loudly to herself as she tended her window-boxes – she said, ‘Sorry about that. She’s a one-off, Henrietta. You ought to see the inside of her shop. It’s great – newspapers and tins of baked beans one side, joss-sticks and wind-chimes the other. I can’t think who she sells her New Age stuff to. It’s all green wellies and Barbour coats round here.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with a bit of eccentricity,’ Sean said. ‘And by the way, she’s right about the green. You ought to get in there on Monday.’

  ‘It’s the Geography exam.’

  ‘Give yourself a reward, then, afterwards.’

  They reached the entrance to Flightsend. Sean’s car was parked outside. He took his keys out of his jeans pocket and fiddled with them.

  ‘I’m sorry if I did the wrong thing, coming,’ he said. ‘I just thought – oh, I don’t know what.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too,’ Charlie said. ‘I hoped she wouldn’t be like this, not now. But well …’

  They both looked towards the door of Kathy’s office. Sean made the smallest of moves in that direction, then thought better of it. ‘I won’t disturb her again. Say goodbye for me.’ He gave Charlie a hug, got into his car and wound down the window. He sat there for a moment, not turning the key in the ignition. Charlie thought he was about to say more.

  As always, she longed to tell him: ‘Come and live with us! She’ll be all right. She’ll come round.’ But she could no longer pretend her mother was going to change her mind. Kathy was building a new life for herself, without Sean.

  ‘I’m glad she’s got you, Charleston,’ Sean said. It was his nickname for her.

  ‘I wish she had you, as well. I think she’s stupid.’ Charlie couldn’t help saying it.

  He looked down at the dashboard, not answering. Then he turned on the ignition, managed a smile, and said, ‘Good luck with the exam tomorrow! I’m down to invigilate, for the first bit. I’ll try not to catch your eye and put you off.’

  Charlie stood outside for some minutes after the sound of his car engine had died away. Her mother didn’t appear. For a moment Charlie thought of confronting her in the office, demanding to know why she’d been so rude. Then she thought of her exam, and the pathetic amount of revision she’d done so far. If she had a blazing row with Mum, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate at all.

  Caspar was lying flat out in the road, exhausted by his two walks and the heat. Charlie sat on the verge and thought about Sean. Since Mum had cast him off, where did that leave her? Sean wasn’t her stepfather, he hadn’t been married to Mum, and there was no name for the relationship Charlie now had with him. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t important to her. He was the nearest thing she had to a father; or, perhaps, father combined with elder brother.

  She had disliked Sean at first, when she was only nine. She’d been suspicious of this energetic stranger who kept appearing at home, getting in the way of her and Mum. The first time Sean stayed the night, Charlie had marched into the bedroom at dawn and confronted her mother: ‘Why’s that man in your bed?’ She’d thought he must be ill. Soon afterwards her mother had explained that Sean was coming to live with them now. Charlie’s resentment had gradually faded. Sean was kind and funny, and liked inventing complicated games for her which he’d play long after Mum got tired, and by that time he was family.

  I love him, she thought now, even if Mum doesn’t, any more. And it was a bit difficult when someone you thought of as family turned into someone you bumped into occasionally at school.

  What was wrong with Mum? Why couldn’t she get back with Sean? He’d proved enough times – proved again today – that he still cared for her, in spite of her curtness; she was quite wrong if she’d expected him to rush off and find a younger substitute. How could she so much as look at Oliver Locke, let alone go all coy and girly about him, when there was Sean on her doorstep? Even without taking his personality into account, Charlie couldn’t imagine a nicer-looking man than Sean, who was fit and tanned and had eyes of an unusual green-brown. Most women would think themselves lucky.

  Charlie remembered a recent English lesson when Sean had been sent to cover for the absent teacher. He and her mother had only recently split up and it embarrassed her to meet him unexpectedly at school, especially like this. Shorts, polo-shirt and trainers would excite little interest on the sports field, but in the English classroom Sean’s clothing – or rather his physique – drew female attention. Charlie became aware of whisperings and nudgings as he turned to write Ms Fletcher’s instructions on the whiteboard. He was more interesting to the girls in the class than the relative merits of Mr Darcy and Mr Wickham in Pride and Prejudice. Some of the most difficult, mouthy girls, who normally sulked through lessons and spoke as rudely as they dared, instantly became charming and attentive, flicking their hair and smiling whenever Sean glanced their way.

  ‘That’s your mum’s toy boy, right, Charlie?’ Lisa Skillett whispered. ‘Phwoarr! Lucky her. Lucky you. Does she let you share?’

  Charlie didn’t trust herself to answer, not wanting to explain about the break-up. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard Sean referred to as her mother’s toy boy. She resented it. Just because he was younger than her mother, people assumed he wasn’t to be taken seriously. And now Mum was just as bad, dumping him because she didn’t think he was grown-up enough. Through some twisted logic, Mum’s idea of saving Sean from sadness and loss was to hurt him even more.

  Caspar, asleep, twitched his paws in the dust, probably dreaming of rabbits. Charlie picked a stem of grass and tickled his nose with it.

  ‘Come on, Caspar. Wake up. We’re going back in.’

  Geography, she told herself. Concentrate.

  She didn’t see her mother until evening. Kathy stayed out in the yard and Charlie tried to revise. When she went into the kitchen to get Caspar’s dinner, her mother came in. She glanced at Charlie, her expression tight and unapproachable.

  ‘It’s all right. Sean’s gone,’ Charlie said. She heard the hard edge to her voice.

  ‘I didn’t ask him to come.’ Kathy filled the kettle and plugged it in, then looked at Charlie more closely. ‘Did you ask him?’

  ‘No!’ Charlie spooned out the strong-smelling meat while Caspar gazed up at her. ‘At
least, I—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He phoned while you were out,’ Charlie confessed, ‘and I said it would be all right to come round.’

  ‘Really,’ her mother said coldly. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t interfere.’

  ‘I only thought—’

  ‘Well, don’t think. Don’t interfere.’

  Charlie put the bowl down on Caspar’s mat. He bolted the food in great gulps, his tail waving.

  ‘Well, what if I wanted to see Sean? I miss him, Mum! And at least I was nice to him! You were so rude – Sean was really upset, it was obvious—’

  ‘And whose fault was that? Who told him to come round? If you’d only asked me, or told him to phone back – you must know I don’t want him here! Anyway, I’m not having a row about it. You’ve got your exam tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s the only thing that matters!’ Charlie flared. ‘Typical teacher! Never mind Sean, never mind me! Just as long as I do well in my exam. How likely is that, now?’

  They hadn’t shouted at each other like this for months. All the careful adjusting Charlie had done, their frail new start, their attempts to balance on the seesaw of hope versus realism – swept away in a gush of anger. Tears of frustration prickled her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ her mother said quietly. ‘I know you meant well. Let’s not quarrel. If you want to see Sean, it’s all right. Of course you do, and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t, but not here, OK? Now I’m going to make us something to eat. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie, who always was.

  Later, in bed, she heard from the other room the muffled but unmistakable sound of her mother crying.

  Portrait

  In spite of everything, Charlie got through her Geography exam without disaster. The second History paper was on Wednesday, German on Friday, and it was all over.

  Friday afternoon, after the exam, was an anticlimax. The group taking German was fairly small; most of Charlie’s friends, including Rowan, had finished on Wednesday or earlier. The German candidates lingered outside for a while, adjusting to the idea of no more revision, no more sitting in silent rows, no more hand-cramp. Next Friday there would be an official leavers’ day, for saying goodbye and returning books, but not everyone was coming to that. Next week, there’d be Sixth Form Induction. The word Induction, to Charlie, summoned memories of the hospital and the maternity ward. She wished they could call it something else.